


primum non nocere

by graywhatsit



Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Drama, Gen, Medicine Cats, Start Of Darkness, Tragedy, everyone's an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-01-18 04:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12380478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: Foxfur, medicine cat, tells his story. Why is he in the Dark Forest? Aren't all medicine cats pure and holy?No. Not all of them.





	1. a beginning...

Before Foxfur even opened his eyes, he knew where he was.

After so many moons cursing his twisted, painful joints and grizzled, thin fur, eyes rheumy and muscles weak, the rush of strength and grace now flowing through his limbs was a welcome relief, and quite telling. Not to mention the damp, dank stench of rot, the echoing whispers of other cats carrying through the air despite the lack of breeze.

He wasn't surprised to be in the Place of No Stars. Snorting, he got to his paws to take a look around. Alone, but for glowing fungus and rotting leaves, a faint blue-green fog obscuring the dark tree trunks stretching away in every possible direction.

Except-- his left ear twitched, swiveling away, and his gaze followed. Two shapes melted out of the mist, faintly and then blindingly glowing with pure light. It burned against his auburn fur, but he refused to show any reaction whatsoever, and instead calmly watched as the figures grew in detail.

The first was muscular and stocky, prowling forward with all of the glory of a lion of old, silver fur thin and clinging tightly to her frame, but shining with health and youth all the same. The second was smaller and slighter, though with such a self-righteous swagger to his gate it was all Foxfur had to keep from curling his lip in distaste; black and brown and cowardly all over, the way his fur puffed up belied his fear in even thinking of coming to this place. Two pairs of glittering green eyes bored into him, yet Foxfur only raised his chin.

"Stonestar." He greeted the silver she-cat coolly, and his eyes only narrowed a touch as he turned to address the other cat. "Sandstripe. Are you my warm welcome?"

"Hardly," Sandstripe growled, subconsciously stepping closer to the strong she-cat next to him. "We wouldn't be here if _she_ didn't want a hearing."

Foxfur purred. "A hearing! For me? You shouldn't have, Stonestar. After all, I thought you'd be... well, sick to death of listening to me."

Stonestar looked less than impressed, and Foxfur even felt a fraction of disappointment. Even in death, he supposed. "Before we turn you over completely to the dark, I want answers. You didn't just sink your claws into anyone who came your way, but I never noticed a pattern. Explain yourself."

"Well, perhaps I didn't want you to notice. And I dare say, it worked, too!" Foxfur's eyes gleamed. "After all, I got you two. But, since I don't think you can do anything to me now--"

"I wish," Sandstripe muttered to himself.

"I may as well tell you. Get comfortable, scrape up some moss." Foxfur settled himself down, tucking his paws underneath neatly. "We'll be here for a while, yet."

\---------------------------------------------------------------

His kithood was normal. There was nothing special to say about it. He had a mother and a father, each as loving as any other pair of parents in any clan, with a brother.

Foxfur would have liked to call Pinepaw little brother, though they were, of course, as littermates, born at the same time. But he was so... slow. From a little scrap of brown fur to a young cat similar in size and shape to a stump, all he did was ask and ask and ask.

Curiosity was fine. Foxfur himself was quite a curious cat, and he wouldn't have gotten quite so far as a medicine cat without it. The pursuit of knowledge was not a bad thing.

But to ask such asinine questions! "When are we going to be apprentices?" "Why does my belly hurt?" "Can't we have some mouse, too?"

_Six moons old, because you ate some mouse, because our bellies hurt when we eat it because we need milk!_ Foxfur wanted to yowl the answers every time, to yowl at his brother to pay attention and he wouldn't need to ask, because then he'd have the answers.

But he didn't. He was a good brother.

And he'd rather not meow himself hoarse, considering every single cat in the clan was the same way. Even his dear, old mentor Sandstripe was a veritable fountain of query, and he was the one everyone looked to for answers!

At least Pinepaw was useful.

A small white paw swiped at the pile of marigold Foxpaw was sorting through, determining the good and ready to be dried from the rotten or caterpillar-eaten, scattering his hard work across the front of the medicine den.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Foxpaw," Wrenpaw simpered, shaking the few leaf scraps her needle-sharp claws had managed to catch and shred. "Were you working or playing? I couldn't tell; it all looks the same to me."

Foxpaw choked back a growl, fixing Wrenpaw with an unimpressed stare. "You understand that by undoing my work, you're really biting your own paw?" He asked, drily.

Wrenpaw gave him a strange look. "What does that have to do with anything?"

_Of course_ , Foxpaw thought, then reached out a paw to scrape what he could back in front of himself. "What do you want? Sandstripe isn't even here."

A sweep of Wrenpaw's thick striped tail scattered the leaves further, and Foxpaw could hear her amused purring. "Just visiting. Seeing if you were still as boring and weak as ever. Wasting time playing with plants and things."

Foxpaw readied a reply, sharp and acidic, but it died on his tongue when he heard a surprised, graceless squawk. Looking up from the mostly-ruined leaves, he stifled a purr.

"Sorry about that, Wrenpaw! Are you okay?" Pinepaw, the oaf, picked himself up off the smaller she-cat, shaking out his fur. "Why were you standing out here? Were you visiting Foxpaw? I think medicine is so neat, don't you? I'd stay here all day, but I think Goldenpool would get mad at me, and besides, do you think you could handle looking at blood? I couldn't."

Wrenpaw couldn't get a word in edgewise, and spitting, wisely decided to go about her business. With a final, silent glare at the brothers, she stalked off, tail twitching behind her.

"Thanks, Pinepaw." Foxpaw, for a moment, felt a genuine glow of affection for his brother.

"What for?" He turned to watch Wrenpaw wander off, a slightly hurt, confused look on his face. "Where's she going? Was it something I did?"

And there it went.

Forcing his fur to lie flat and not betray his own feelings, Foxpaw placed what few whole leaves were left into a neat pile and set them aside. "Who is to know, Pine? Maybe you ought to go after her and ask," he continued, sardonically. "You do have a way with cats."

Pinepaw brightened immediately, leaning over to nudge his brother-- nearly bowling him over in the process with his massive head-- fondly. "You really think so? Alright, then. I'll see you later, Foxpaw!"

Foxpaw really wanted to get back to work, and would probably need to replace all the ruined herbs before Sandstripe had his ears off, but... He watched as his brother lumbered over to the still-fuming she-cat, mewing something he couldn't quite catch from across the way.

He purred with an odd, grim satisfaction when the fleabrain got three claws across the nose for his trouble.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

It didn't start there, and it didn't end there, but somewhere in the between lay his own parents.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps they were _more_ loving than the average parent. Any other cat in the clan spent more time with their mentor than a mother or a father, looked to them for guidance in any and all aspects of life. The only blood that mattered was Clan, and anything beyond that was meaningless. Every cat in any Clan knew it, took it to heart, lived by it. Clan was more important than blood.

Thorntail was fine, usually, even if he was still hanging around the nursery up to the day of their apprenticeship. Roseheart, however, was different.

"Are you sure you want to be a medicine cat?"

Foxkit looked up to his mother, who had stopped grooming the soft-though-growing-sleeker fur between his ears to look down at him worriedly. "Yes, I do."

Roseheart still looked troubled, and glanced away towards her mate, excitedly speculating with Pinekit about his mentor. "Because your brother seems so happy to be a warrior. He'll be with all of the other apprentices."

"So?" Foxkit wrinkled his nose at the thought. "Grasspaw smells and Lilypaw kicks her denmates all night. Why do I want to be cramped in there when I could have my own nest?"

"What about a mate, or kits? You wouldn't be able to have your own kittens one day, or a lovely she-cat to spend time with," Roseheart went on, running over the tail end of Foxkit's question. "You know, I've spoken with Dovespot, and she agreed that Seedkit--"

"Seedkit?" Foxkit pictured the kit in question; born three moons after him, still with her needle-sharp kitten teeth and pale yellow kit fluff, padding around after him and pawing at his long tail when it happened to drape over the side of Dovespot's nest. "No! I don't want any kittens, and I don't want any she-cats around me! I like helping Sandstripe with his herbs!"

Roseheart planted a paw on his back, and despite Foxkit being six moons old and even a little bigger than his mother, she forced him down as if he were still getting used to his legs. "You might change your mind one day," she murmured between licks, finally smoothing down the last of his fur. "Just remember, you can always switch over."

Foxkit couldn't protest this, though he'd wanted to. The moment he opened his mouth, ready to spit, Stonestar yowled from the top of her hollowed-out rock den; unceremoniously, he was shoved out to pad after his brother, who plodded forward with his head and tail held high.

He bristled throughout the ceremony, Stonestar's sonorous voice drowned out by his own thoughts. Didn't she care what _he_ wanted? He was a kit himself, and he already knew they were a pawful when they _weren't_ causing trouble. As for a mate? He was way too young. He knew what he wanted, and it had nothing to do with what his mother thought of things. He'd be the best medicine cat the plains had ever seen; by the time he got his name, Roseheart would--

"Foxkit!"

Foxkit snapped to attention, eyes wide. Both Stonestar and Sandstripe stood watching him, a dash of amusement in their expressions. Around him, he could feel the humor and affection in the air, as well as the brimming to burst excitement radiating off of his brother, shifting from paw to paw next to him. "Um, yes?"

"Well, you are willing to be my apprentice, aren't you?" Sandstripe asked, teasingly gruff. "Unless you'd like to put your brain to other use?"

_Clearly_ , Foxkit wanted to reply, but held his tongue. It wouldn't do to start an argument here. "Absolutely," he mewed, as solemnly as his breaking meow would allow him.

He touched noses with his mentor with the excited cheering of his clanmates in his ears.


	2. work to exhaustion when you're young

It wasn't one day that changed everything. It wasn't even a week.

It was a long, slow slog of moons, changing so slowly day by day that Foxpaw hardly noticed.

He was growing into his duties as swiftly as he was growing into his paws, which weren't all that large to begin with. For the first few moons, Sandstripe drilled him, testing him on each and every cure he could get his paws on; from poppy seeds to marigold, from foxglove to deathberries, he stared at each of the plant parts until he was sure his eyes would burn out, and then some more.

Sandstripe would snap, "Quickly!" Foxpaw would then drop whatever he happened to have, and rush to Sandstripe's side, who would likely have laid out several parts. "Tell me..."

"Oh, that one's a juniper berry, it's good for bellyaches," he would recite, carefully stretching out a paw to point at one of the dusky blue berries, rather than the brighter red of a holly or sickly green gooseberry.

It proceeded to get harder, later on. Rather than the easier tests, he would need to determine freshness and potency, by sight, smell, and touch. Then, he would need to fetch, instead of choosing from an already chosen portion.

Absolutely, it kept his mind sharp. More than sorting and resorting leaf after berry after seed.

"Foxpaw, quickly!"

Foxpaw, in the middle of a sentence to his father, turned, disbelieving. Sandstripe stood, tail twitching in agitation, a mere taillength away. "You don't have to yowl--"

"To _me_ , Foxpaw," Sandstripe snapped, green eyes narrowing. "You can speak to your father later."

He was just about to spit a stinging reply, but a gentle touch to his shoulder stopped him. "You can. I'll be around after patrol." Thorntail blinked at him, affectionate. "It's nothing I can't handle. Keep him waiting much longer, though, and he's fit to burst!"

Foxpaw purred at the mental image, stopping briefly to press his muzzle into his father's short gray fur on his way to his increasingly-agitated mentor.

"It wasn't just social," Foxpaw griped as he approached. There were no leaves on the ground before Sandstripe's paws, which meant another fetch test. Wonderful. "He said he needed a medicine cat."

"Then he can come back after his patrol," Sandstripe replied tartly, "and speak to a proper medicine cat-- one who _didn't_ shirk his training."

"I'm not shirking! He asked me a question!" Foxpaw spat, shoulder fur bristling, as Sandstripe turned to reach a paw into the medicine den.

Sandstripe, being a whisker shorter than his long-legged apprentice, still pinned Foxpaw in one place with his icy green glare as he threw it over his shoulder. "Watch your tone," he growled. "You're shirking just by being impudent. You'll tend to the elders the moment our lesson is finished."

Foxpaw took a deep breath, curling his claws into the trampled yellowing grass beneath. If it were anyone else, he'd take the moment to count each of his claws, just so he wouldn't spit bile at them; instead, he released it, exhaling sharply, and followed after his mentor.

Sandstripe was already rummaging through a small crevice in the sod forming the wall of the den. "We're doing something different today." He pulled something out, shook his head and muttered, then reached for something else. "You're decent enough at recognizing herbs, I suppose."

"Thank you," Foxpaw replied, snarkily. "Anything else?"

"You need to know how the body works in order to apply them properly." Sandstripe pushed the new leaf bundle in his grasp towards Foxpaw.

_Oh, thank StarClan, something different._ Foxpaw parted the broad leaves, revealing a pile of tiny ivory bones. "Even if it were time for a meal," Foxpaw started, drily, "I don't believe this would be much of a mouthful."

"Don't be daft," Sandstripe hissed, swiping a thankfully-sheathed paw at his ear. It still stung. "Do you think only prey have bones? That field mouse will work well enough for our purposes-- namely, right now, anatomy." He sat, facing Foxpaw, and curled his striped tail around his paws. "Put it together."

Foxpaw stared down at the pile, slightly dismayed. "I don't suppose you'd help me?"

"You're wasting daylight," Sandstripe replied, simply, settling in. His eyes narrowed. "Get to it. It's tick season, after all."

\---------------------------------------------------------------

"Threeleg, I hate him."

Foxpaw pressed down on the soaked grass-pad, willing the tick under his paw to burst simply from the pressure, so he wouldn't need to try and dig it out.

It didn't, but the bloodsucker dropped away as he pulled back. Whitefoot, finally free of the pest, sighed in relief.

"So you've said," Threeleg replied, evenly, from his spot on the far side of the log. "Many times."

The punishment wasn't quite so severe as it could've been. The only two cats relegated to the elder's downed log were Whitefoot, the oldest cat in the clan, and Threeleg, who wasn't an elder at all.

"Well, it's true! It doesn't stop being true simply because I repeat myself." Foxpaw set the grass-pad aside, fighting the urge to lick his filthy, smelly paws clean. "He makes me do everything over and over, and it's never right! Now, Hawkpaw--"

Threeleg shifted, bringing his one-legged back half into the tiny pool of sunshine just streaming into the log. "I don't get to Gatherings very often," he mewed, wryly. "Have you mentioned them?"

Foxpaw ignored him in favor of his rant, meow growing in volume. "She's almost ready for her medicine cat name, and we started at the exact same time!" At Whitefoot's disgruntled glare, he stalked over to Threeleg. "At this rate I'll be lucky to have my name before my muzzle's gray!"

"He just wants you to be prepared. You are the one who told me you'd like to be the best." Threeleg looked Foxpaw over with a critical eye, taking in his bristling tail and hurt, angry expression, and reached around to touch his shoulder comfortingly with the tip of his tail. "That said, you're a smart cat, and you've been following him around since you could walk! If any cat were ready for his name, and if I were a betting tom, I'd bet a couple of mousetails it'd be you."

Foxpaw glowered, but he didn't pull away or launch into another rant. Instead, his tail drooped, and he sat heavily on the edge of Threeleg's comfortable nest.

"I could ask him in here to speak with me, too, if you like," Threeleg murmured, nudging his friend in the side with his head. "Maybe get to the bottom of things? Your training shouldn't make you so upset, Foxpaw."

"Are you kidding? He'll just make it worse," Foxpaw snorted bitterly. "He's a spiteful old crow, and I--"

"Yes, you hate him," Threeleg finished. "As you've mentioned. I won't have a talk with him, fine. Have you done your exercises?"

Foxpaw snorted again, but dutifully demonstrated breathing and counting his claws. "I could do it in my sleep." His nose wrinkled. "I probably do, for how often I do it during the day."

Threeleg purred. "That I could believe." Quickly, he sobered, and fixed Foxpaw with a flinty orange stare. "Still, if it gets any worse, I will tell Stonestar or Rabbitstep. Don't think I won't. No apprentice deserves to be worked to the bones."

"Alright, alright." Foxpaw shook his head but purred all the same. "I think just speaking with you helped right now, though. Thank you for listening, Threeleg."

"Warriors hunt and fight, medicine cats heal and give prophecies. Don't thank me for doing my duty." Threeleg paused, then meowed, slyly, "After all, what else could I do-- sit here and grow mushrooms?"

"You would bring in squirrels and mice for once," Foxpaw teased, "and badgers, besides, for warriors to sharpen their claws."

"Alright, get out. I believe I can spy another cat in need of my services, and you're hogging all of their time." When Threeleg shoved at him with a paw, Foxpaw left the log willingly, gathering the still stinking grass-pad along the way and feeling lighter than he had since morning.


	3. it is a mystery

Thorntail was in the medicine den when Foxpaw returned, paws finally clean and smelling of cat rather than mouse bile.

“Breathe in and out,” Sandstripe instructed, head lowered to Thorntail’s chest. “Slowly! Don’t hyperventilate, this isn’t a test to see how fast you can faint!”

Foxpaw exchanged a pained, weary glance with his father over Sandstripe’s head, padding over to watch the process.

Sandstripe snarled, without even looking to his apprentice. “And I don’t need  _ you _ breathing down my neck! Back up and stay quiet and you just might learn for once.”

Purely out of spite, Foxpaw contemplated breathing and moving as loudly as possible, but a look at his father, slouching and with dull fur, kept him quiet. He focused, instead, as Sandstripe checked his father’s lungs, heart, and posture, then settled him on his side to run his paws along his belly.

“Nothing hard, no odd lumps. Your heart is as strong as ever and your lungs as well. Your nose is a little dry and warm, but...” Sandstripe grunted, contemplating, then let Thorntail to his paws. “You’re as healthy as any cat your age could be.”

Foxpaw expected his father to be angry, tail lashing, eyes glaring at Sandstripe’s dismissive diagnosis. With a snarl like thunder, able to turn any cat from the battlefield, he’d tell Sandstripe off, both for not bothering to look further and for treating his son so poorly. That would be Thorntail, warrior from birth. 

Instead, Thorntail seemed distraught. “How could I be? I have no appetite, my legs are weak, my body aches!”

“All signs of aging.” Sandstripe thought, briefly. “Or a little stress. GaleClan has been bolder recently, coming down from their steppes.”

“And we’ve taken care of that!” Foxpaw caught the desperation in his father’s eyes, and it chilled him. He shivered as his father continued. “MossClan is no less strong than we have ever been. I’m telling you, something’s wrong with me.”

Sandstripe sniffed, unimpressed. “Drink some water and get a good night’s rest,” he advised, though not unkindly. “You’ll be right as rain.”

Was that really all he would do? Foxpaw gaped. “Sandstripe, if he says there’s something really wrong--”

“Is he a medicine cat, Foxpaw?” Sandstripe watched his apprentice through narrowed green eyes. “Has he had visions? Has he taken the oath? Has he spent moons after seasons studying maladies and their cures?

“No,” he continued, sharply, without waiting for Foxpaw’s reply. “He hasn’t. And neither have you.”

“It is his own body, though,” Foxpaw protested, though Sandstripe’s glare kept him cowed, driving his meow down in volume, leaving him muttering to his own paws.

“Bodies and minds can be fooled.” Sandstripe turned back to his patient, dipping his muzzle. “I promise, just rest for the evening, get some good food and water. You will feel better.”

Thorntail looked doubtful and opened his mouth to reply, gaze flickering over to his son, still wilted though petulant. “... Of course, Sandstripe,” he meowed, finally. “You do know best.” With that, he turned and left the medicine den, sparing no glance towards Foxpaw as he did so.

Sandstripe hardly wasted a heartbeat from the moment Thorntail’s tail tip left his vision before he spoke again, eyes still fixed on the entrance of the den. “Clear out all of the bedding,” He ordered, austerely. “Now. You spoke out of turn, and against the better judgement of your elder and mentor, besides.”

Foxpaw flexed his claws into the cool packed dirt, burning, breathing.  _ One, two, three, four, five… _ He counted, first one paw, then the next. “Of course, Sandstripe.”

_If Sandstripe won’t help my father_ , he thought, viciously tearing into the slightly rumpled sick-bedding along one wall, _then I will._ He balled up the moss, careful not to pick it up in his mouth per muscle memory, and tucked a large wad under his chin to carry outside of camp.

As he completed the chore, the pawful of trips it took back and forth from the wind-ruffled plains to the copse of trees MossClan camp was safely placed in, Foxpaw puzzled over his father’s case.  _ I’ll need to check him over where and when Sandstripe won’t notice. But even if I do that,  _ he realized,  _ Sandstripe won’t give him permission off from duty. He’s pricklier than a hedgehog and nowhere near as charming. I need help. _

It weighed on his mind further as the evening went on, between Sandstripe’s stony silence, the scrawniest mouse in the pile for a meal, and finally bedding down on his thin pad of moss and grass. The answer came to him as he washed, tugging a clod from between the white toes on his back foot.  _ Rabbitleap! She’s fair, and she  _ is  _ the one in charge of patrols. If anyone could make sure Thorntail could get some rest, it’s her. _

It was too late now, of course-- he’d just heard Larkfeather take over for moonhigh watch, sending a sleepy, stumbling Brackenclaw to bed. The moment he awoke, he’d go straight to Rabbitleap.

* * *

 

He couldn’t go straight to Rabbitleap.

Certainly though not from lack of trying; most of the night, Foxpaw had simply dozed, keeping his ears pricked for the first note of birdsong, followed by the slow, soft mumbling of cats woken up before first light in order to form dawn patrol.

If it meant he were a little crosser than normal, or had darted awake at every whisper of grass only to find it was a half-asleep cat on their way to the dirtplace, those were the consequences.

He rushed across the clearing with scraps of moss still in his fur, making for the prickly gorse bush that housed slumbering warriors. A few here and there were still sleeping, curled up cozy in their nests, but Foxpaw opened his eyes wide in order to see better into the darkness.

As deputy, of course, Rabbitleap would sleep near the center of the group, but he couldn’t spot her sandy-brown fur, despite her scent being strong. Still, given the tangle of cats still dozing, she may as well have been well hidden.

Foxpaw called out, quietly, making sure not to whisper in case the harsher tones woke Goldenpool, asleep just a few mossy nests away. “Rabbitleap?” No answer. He mewed a little louder, just in case she was in a deeper sleep, “Rabbitleap, it’s urgent. I really need to speak with you about--”

“She isn’t here,” Goldenpool growled, looking up grumpily from her nest. “And even if she were, she wouldn’t appreciate being woken up by some apprentice with no sense of courtesy! Let us sleep, Foxpaw!”

He jerked back, embarrassment flushing his fur with warmth. “I’m sorry-- please, go back to your sleep.”

“Gladly.” The voice coming from the back of the den crackled with sleep and irritation, and he could hear fur shifting against moss. “Get out of here until at least mid-morning.”

His next destination would be the apprentice’s den, if she hadn’t gone out with the dawn patrol instead. As he padded over, he noticed Wrenpaw squirm out of the entrance, her tabby fur still somehow impeccable in the early morning light, and he braced himself for a tongue lashing. At no time of day were her acidic comments welcomed or even acceptable, but especially not in the early morning. Still, she was Rabbitleap’s apprentice, and therefore the most likely to know where her mentor might be. He’d have to chance coming within range of her thorn-sharp claws.

Foxpaw took a breath and padded over.

“Early start,” he began, aiming for casual and innocent instead of anxious and barely-restrained contempt. Whether it came across as he’d hoped, he wouldn’t know, for at the sound of his mew Wrenpaw, normally so snide and collected, jumped a taillength, fur puffing out along her spine.

“Foxpaw,” she spat, fear turned to fury. Quickly, Wrenpaw looked from left to right, then came very close and continued quietly. “You’re lucky I didn’t rip your ears off. What do you even want?”

“I’m not after you, whatever you’re up to. I don’t really care.” Possibly the wrong thing to say, but Foxpaw rushed forward anyway. “I’m looking for Rabbitleap; have you seen her this morning?”

Wrenpaw’s ears flattened back. “What do you want with her? She’s the deputy, she’s busy, and she’s  _ not here _ ,” she snapped. “I don’t know where she is, but buzz off with your questions.” The tabby turned away sharply, fur still bristling, and called back over her shoulder as she stalked out of camp. “And  _ don’t follow me _ !”

Pinepaw yawned, echoing from within the brambles. “Did she have a thorn in her nest or what?”

_ Or what, indeed,  _ Foxpaw wondered, staring after the path the she-cat had taken, her fur shining with not a strand out of place, jumpy and vicious in turns.  _ What’s going on with Wrenpaw? _


	4. take me to your leader

After that morning, Foxpaw never had a moment where he saw Wrenpaw and Rabbitleap apart. From sunup, when Rabbitleap was already out of camp and Wrenpaw directly on her way, if not already gone, to sundown, when the whole of MossClan not presently out on evening patrol was gathered to eat together, Wrenpaw seemed determined to cling on like a stubborn burr in a tangle of Downpelt’s long fur. He couldn’t stay up all night, every night, in the hopes of catching her, after all, and after her fervent warning away, Foxpaw couldn’t bring himself to take the initiative and just demand to talk to her. As little as he liked Wrenpaw, he needed to keep himself-- and his father-- in one piece, and Rabbitleap wasn’t going to be the way.

He’d have to go right to the top.

Stonestar was a bit of an enigma to Foxpaw. His only true interaction with her had been during his apprenticeship ceremony, just an indulgent amusement at his awkwardness, and anything beyond was Stonestar at her most professional and leaderly, from Gathering to Clan meeting. Still, this was for his father. If he wanted Thorntail to be around to enjoy his retirement from duty, he needed to speak with Stonestar as soon as possible.

Foxpaw paused outside of the hollowed rock the was his leader’s den, fur fluffed up against the biting chill of leaf-fall, clouds bloated and dark in the sky, holding a guarantee of future snow. He thought of his speech, going over every piece.

_ I understand Thorntail is a loyal, dutiful senior warrior. His hard work is a credit to MossClan. However, I’ve noticed him to be more ill than even Sandstripe has diagnosed, and I request that he be given time away from those duties to rest and fight his illness. Once he’s been cleared of any lingering malady, he can return to his work, as determined as ever. _

Simple. Logical. An appeal to the greater well being of the clan. Foxpaw took a breath, then called out. “Stonestar? It’s Foxpaw; may I come in? I have an important issue to discuss with you.” His meow cracked a little, less confident than he’d hoped to be.

Still, a broad silver head poked out of the entrance, and Stonestar brightened upon seeing Foxpaw. “Of course,” she purred, beckoning him inside with a slight turn of her head. “But first, how are you doing, Foxpaw?”

Caught off guard, Foxpaw stumbled over the floor, disturbing a little of the soft, sandy grit beneath his paws. “Me? I’m fine, but listen, I need to talk to you about--”

“Good,” Stonestar interrupted, moving away from the entrance to settle in front of him, sleek tail curling around her massive paws. “I was a little worried about your path, you know. I worry about all of my clan, of course, but you were always a little serious.” She blinked at him, warmly. “I’m glad to see you’re taking to your duties well.”

Foxpaw allowed himself to glow a little, fur flushing warm from the praise, but quickly shook it off to refocus. “Thank you, but I really need to tell you this. It’s very serious.”

Stonestar’s whiskers twitched, but she dipped her head. “Go ahead. What seems to be the problem?”

_ Here goes.  _ Foxpaw took a breath and started in on his speech. “Well, it’s about my father, Thorntail. I know he’s very important to MossClan and takes his duty seriously, but he came in recently with a few concerns, and I think it may be best to remove him from duty for a short time until he recovers.”

It wasn’t exactly as he’d practiced, but it seemed to have the intended effect, as Stonestar’s face became serious, a glimmer of the worry she’d already spoken about in her eyes. “Is that why you’ve come? Sandstripe didn’t tell him to rest?”

“No, he didn’t,” Foxpaw replied, feeling vindicated. Finally, someone was listening! “I was there when Thorntail listed his symptoms, and when Sandstripe checked him over, but Sandstripe said nothing was wrong and let him go.”

“I know Sandstripe can be a little prickly sometimes,” Stonestar murmured, “but to do something like this…” She looked up at Foxpaw, away from her thoughts, with an intense stare. “Have you checked Thorntail yourself?”

Foxpaw began to answer in the affirmative, then paused. Between trying to puzzle out what was going on independently, his training, and attempting to get the chance to talk to Rabbitleap, he’d never gotten around to actually checking his father’s condition for himself. “I… no, I haven’t,” he mewed, feeling a different kind of heat-- shame, embarrassment-- prickle his fur.

Stonestar’s eyes narrowed. “Then, did you ask Sandstripe to do a second checkup?”

“...No,” Foxpaw muttered. How could he have, when Sandstripe would claw his pelt off for even breathing incorrectly?

Stonestar kept watching him for several heartbeats, her gaze just as intense and searching, and Foxpaw sat, shrinking into his own fur and chastising himself for his errors. Finally, just as Foxpaw was about to cut his losses and apologize, or even try to make an explanation, or just get his leader to  _ stop staring _ , Stonestar leaned back, purring so hard Foxpaw was sure GaleClan could hear the choppy rumbling.

“I see, Foxpaw.” Even as she meowed, her whiskers twitched with amusement. “You apprentices these days with your jokes; we never would have had the gall to try something so big back in my day!”

Foxpaw gaped at her. She thought he was  _ joking _ ?

“Sure, we hid the odd pebble in a nest or put a little mouse bile back on the mouse, but this is dedication! Forget what I said about you being so serious. You almost had me fooled; you would’ve been an excellent diplomat, Foxpaw.” Stonestar continued to purr, standing and moving to the entrance to her den. “Sandstripe has been a medicine cat for seasons; if he says there’s nothing wrong, I’m inclined to believe him. Your father is fine, now get out of here. You’ve still got a lot of training to do.”

“But… Stonestar, I--” Foxpaw’s protests fell on deaf ears as Stonestar, still purring, padded out of her den to leave him alone in the dim light, baffled.

* * *

 

“She didn’t believe you?”

“No!” Foxpaw sat, curled up but still bristling, in the elder’s den. It was empty, Threeleg having asked the other elders-- politely, of course-- to give he and Foxpaw some privacy as he noticed the apprentice storm toward the den. “She didn’t, and even when I tried to say otherwise, she just purred and acted like I was some kit looking for attention! Making jokes and playing tricks; I’m just trying to do my job and help someone, and she acts like it’s  _ nothing _ !”

Threeleg sat back a little at the outburst, eyes wide. “Take a few breaths, Foxpaw,” he started, calmly. “Remember your exercises. It’s okay.”

“But it’s  _ not _ okay!” Foxpaw’s whiskers trembled, and he hated it. He hated the grief in his meow as he continued, “It’s not okay. It’s Thorntail. It’s my dad, and I don’t know what’s wrong, and  _ no one cares _ !”

He looked down at the floor, embarrassment fighting his urge to yowl at everyone for doing nothing, and a few heartbeats later, he felt a warm shape curl around him.

“You care,” Threeleg murmured, pressing his dark fur into Foxpaw’s ruddy pelt. “I know your father, and I know you, and I care.” He paused to give Foxpaw a few comforting licks across the top of his head, and Foxpaw felt his frustration ebb, replaced by the kind of weary emptiness that comes from pouring out. “You’re an intelligent cat, Foxpaw, and dedicated at that. You’ll figure out something to help. Everything will be okay. I promise.”


	5. winter walk

Leaf-fall gave way to leafbare, the frosts clinging harder the the grass in the mornings, stubbornly refusing to let go until the sun finally burned it away just after sunhigh, until one morning the cats of MossClan awoke to fluffy white snow instead of ice-brittle yellow grass.

Most of the cats grumbled about it, from the warriors’ good-natured to the elders’ (and Sandstripe’s) bitter. Downpelt was a special exception; despite being young and thick-furred, with no creaking joints to worry about, her fur clumped together into messy tangles of ice dangling from her chest and belly.

“Just once,” Foxpaw heard her yowl on his way out of camp, a few days after a particularly heavy snowstorm that left the cat-deep snow coated with a crunchy layer of ice, “I wish I had shorter fur! Do you know how hard it is to untangle this?”

He snorted, fluffing up his considerably shorter coat against the chill in the air as he continued on.

“Hey, Foxpaw!”

Foxpaw turned his head, brightening a touch at the sight of Threeleg’s green-gold eyes peering at him from the elder’s den. He changed his course slightly, coming to meet Threeleg rather than yowl across camp to talk. “Hi, Threeleg.”

“Where are you off to in this weather?” Threeleg moved around a little in his nest, making just enough room for Foxpaw to squeeze inside. It may have been dark with that old cat smell, but it was warm and away from the wind, so folding up his long limbs was an easy sacrifice to make.

“Sandstripe,” Foxpaw said, simply, though his acidic tone expressed his feelings quite nicely. Threeleg butted his shoulder in sympathy. “‘Just because it’s snowed to StarClan doesn’t mean there aren’t things for you to do,’” he mimicked, making his meow deeper and creakier in an exaggerated attempt at Sandstripe. “‘Go get all the bark from all the trees and don’t forget to bring me the moon, too, while you’re at it!’”

Threeleg purred. “You’re getting good at that! Maybe they should change your name to Mockingpaw.”

“Pfft, no, thanks.” Foxpaw sat with his friend in the comfortable, blessedly warm silence of the den, before his duties began to really press on his conscience. “The sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can come back.”

“Will it go faster with some help? I’m not doing much of anything today.”

Foxpaw looked at Threeleg, skeptical. “You?”

Threeleg stared back, coolly. “I may be missing a leg,” he mewed, softly, “but I’m perfectly able to walk and carry things, Foxpaw.”

Shamed, Foxpaw averted his gaze, getting up to his paws in an effort to quell his prickling fur. “Of course, Threeleg. I’m sorry-- I’ll be glad of the help.”

“It’s no problem.” Threeleg brushed past him, but the look thrown back over his shoulder was as friendly and bright as ever. “Come along, then! I don’t like this snow, much, either!”

* * *

 

That much was obvious later on, after they’d frayed their claws scraping the bark off of the trees comprising MossClan’s territory. The spiky, splintery chips pierced through the soft fur under Foxpaw’s chin, and he shifted the bundle uncomfortably to pull together another pawful. “Doing okay, Threeleg?” The bark stabbed at him, and he shifted it again.

The voice coming from behind him strained. “Yes, fine.” 

“You sure?” Foxpaw looked back to Threeleg, standing at the base of a tree a few tail-lengths away, his pitch-black fur dusted with white flakes, like stars in the night sky.

“Absolutely.” Threeleg reared up to claw at the tree, and his single hind leg trembled, his long tail swishing to one side to help him make up for the balance. It passed right over where the remaining joint of his missing hind leg was, a stub just under his hip, which tensed and moved as if the leg were still there.

Sometimes, Foxpaw knew, it still felt as though it were. If Threeleg saw as he stepped where his leg may have been, he would twitch, drawing them back in, even spitting as if Foxpaw had stepped directly on his leg without watching where he was going.

It wasn’t something exclusive to Threeleg, either. Sandstripe had mentioned it on one of his more forgiving days, of cats without tails attempting to give signals or moving the remainders for balance. Feeling pain if they were “stepped on”, or even just on normal days, as if the wound had just occurred. There wasn’t a name for it, as far as he knew, but simply some part of a cat that just couldn’t process what happened to them.

He could see the pain in Threeleg’s face, now, as he scraped at the tree, the muscles tensing on his weaker side and his teeth gritting. With that much pain, Foxpaw wondered, what happened to his leg in the first place?

Threeleg refused to speak about it, and any mention of it to Sandstripe ended neither in an answer nor a sharp-tongued reprimand, but a quiet and pervasive sense of shame and discomfort. Whatever happened, his leg was gone, and there was nothing to do about it now.

“I think that’s enough, anyway.” Foxpaw padded over, surreptitiously adding some of Threeleg’s bundle to his own, despite the discomfort of even more splinters in his coat. “Sandstripe can yowl all he wants. If he wants more, he can come out and freeze his own tail off.”

Threeleg dropped back down, the relief flooding through his strained muscles palpable. “Good. Maybe then he’ll soften up, eh?”

“If only he were like this snow,” Foxpaw grumbled, pushing forward through the snow

in order to make an easier path for his less easily-mobile friend. “One day of sunshine to soften, and in a few days just  _ gone _ .”

“Hey, now,” Threeleg admonished, though not entirely serious. “You’ll miss him when he’s not around. You’ve learned a lot from him.”

Foxpaw just snorted and continued on. Despite all of his complaining, the day was warmer than previous days. Still cold, but more bearable, considering his thinner coat than most. The sun was shining, with the occasional sharp claw of a breeze, and he could even hear the faint twittering of the stubborn birds still clinging to the plains. It was almost enough to brighten his mood, the hope of newleaf right around the bend, until…

_ drip _

An icy cold drop of water landed on his neck, snaking through his fur to touch the vulnerable skin underneath. “Foxdung,” Foxpaw spat, bunching his shoulders. “Even as it melts it has to freeze me to the bone!”

Threeleg purred, but didn’t say anything, simply following in Foxpaw’s wake.  _ Probably tired _ , Foxpaw guessed.  _ You don’t get much exercise in the elder’s den. Maybe the cold is hurting his leg, too. _

“We may as well tell everyone it’s melting,” Foxpaw started. “A thaw might mean some good news for--”

The tree up above, the one dripping down the cursed cold water, groaned a little, and Foxpaw looked up the best he could without dropping his supplies. Covered in snow, the same ice that formed a crust on the stuff below him coated the limbs, making the whole thing sparkle in the light.

“So long as we keep away from the trees,” Threeleg finished for him.

“Right.” Foxpaw carried on, rushing his pawsteps a little more. He didn’t want to be caught under any more of that dripping and groaning, and he was sure Threeleg wouldn’t, either.

It didn’t happen then.

It happened heartbeats later, just as the camp was coming into view. Just a little while longer, and they could both curl up and warm their paws. No more being outside in the damp and cold.

Foxpaw could see the camp. The entrance was right there: a thickly-woven bramble capable of keeping anyone other that MossClan out. Comforting and familiar, he listened for the sounds of cats.

Instead he heard a creak, the sound of a break. He heard something big land, and he heard Threeleg.

Threeleg grunted, and the big thing landed and then a smaller, lighter thing, muffled by the soft cushion of snow.

Foxpaw turned, and whatever he could possibly have thought to say was gone, because Threeleg  _ wasn’t standing _ . He was lying in the snow, half-buried under more, with a large chunk of the still-sparkling ice next to him.

Threeleg wasn’t moving, and as Foxpaw watched, dumbstruck, he saw red on the snow, and flecks of white in black, like stars in the night sky.


End file.
